


Ribcage Roots

by Agent_24



Category: RWBY
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: It becomes easy, over time, to forget what it feels like to have petals at the back of the throat, trapped there like confessions and words of affection you're not allowed to say.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 29
Kudos: 334





	Ribcage Roots

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I think the whole Hanahaki trope has a lot of grievously wasted potential that I’ve mercilessly exploited before, but only in fandoms where I am allowed to play with death through some canon means of immortality or resurrection. However, since RWBY has no such mechanism for avoiding death besides being a boss ass bitch, I’m changing all the rules.
> 
>   1. Hanahaki is not necessarily fatal, and there’s more ways to get rid of it beyond surgery or requited feelings. If a person can accept that their feelings won’t be returned and get over it, the petals will wilt over time. How long depends on the person.
>   2. Love is complicated and so Hanahaki should be too; the deeper the love is, the more petals (or eventually full flowerheads) you cough up. You are only in danger of dying when you are deeply and irrevocably in unrequited love and can’t let it go. Like any sickness, however, it still hinders everyday activity and decreases the quality of life.
>   3. Surgery for lighter cases than fatal ones are fairly common. Patients will experience a short loss of emotional capacity depending on how serious their condition was, lasting usually 4 to 8 weeks. Emotion and capacity for love returns gradually.
>   4. Unrequited crushes and infatuation is often referred to as “puppy petals“, a play on “puppy love“. Puppy petals are common in high schools, where crushes run rampant and clueless. Symptoms are very small, usually just a petal or two, and coughing is infrequent.
> 

> 
> That pretty much covers it! Hold on to your butts...

Qrow is always...bracing for impact around new people, so to speak. 

It’s not really their fault. It’s just that his semblance being what it is means people tend to be wary of him, if not from a reasonable fear, then from some unfortunate circumstances that turned out to be his fault. And he’s used to it. Mostly, he’s used to it. It doesn’t hold the same sharp sting as it did when he was young, eager to fit in and prove himself and find some place of belonging; nowadays, or at least in recent years, the expectation of inevitable rejection has fallen to a dull sort of ache. And if that ache started to settle too deep into the pit of his stomach, then well, liquor could always settle a little deeper.

The whole thing stings a little sharper now that he’s gone sober. He’d expected it. Through trembling bouts of withdrawal and misplaced anger at the world, he reminds himself that he is doing this for Ruby and Yang, and Weiss and Blake too, and all these damn kids he’s so desperate to protect, and if _they_ don’t give a shit about his godawful semblance, then it doesn’t matter.

He will try to control it, and he will try not to let his withdrawal symptoms and depressive episodes make his luck flare worse, and the kids will want him around so it won’t matter. 

He doesn’t expect to arrive at Atlas and end up...paired off. The arrest he expects, sure — though that makes it no less humiliating — but a partner? James should know better. He should know Qrow is better off hovering over his nieces from a distance or flying solo. Qrow braces himself for the mine’s swarm of Grimm and tremoring Dust shards and the inevitability of putting his partner in danger. He’ll be open with it this time, at least. 

And Clover just smiles, like Qrow’s semblance is nothing especially terrible. He pulls a conveniently placed pipe loose and he _winks,_ and Qrow is left thinking, a little positively for once, that his semblance may not matter one bit.

He works with Clover a lot after that.

He expects some sort of superiority complex from the man, and he’s wrong; he expects some kind of disdain whenever his semblance is obviously the culprit of something going awry, and he’s wrong about that, too. He expects his semblance to dig its heels in at the jealousy he feels whenever he sees Clover channel his luck so effectively, but the man is so charmingly cocky, so serious when the situation calls for it, so kind-eyed whenever he looks Qrow’s way that the bad luck just doesn’t come the way it used to. 

It occurs to Qrow with extreme reluctance that he’s gone his whole life not really understanding that his semblance got so much worse when he was at his lowest. It occurs to him that going clean has made misfortune easier to side-step. It occurs to him, like the flick of a switch, that he likes Clover very much, and that has made things easier to side-step too. 

And so they play cards in the back of transports; and so they meet each other in the mess hall for mealtimes with increasing frequency; and so he quickly grows used to the cadence, the _timbre_ of Clover’s voice; and so Qrow realizes with a sharp and terrible stutter of his heart that in the few months he’s been here, he’s somehow dived too deep.

And so he realizes, when the Atlas campus holds a small recruiting festival, when a dainty woman meets Clover in the courtyard and embraces him tightly with an unembarrassed kind of joy, that he can only blame himself for thinking there was something more to Clover’s playful jokes and lilting tones. Clover spins the woman around when she jumps into his arms and her laugh echoes across the open air, and somehow the worst part of it is that she's very pretty, dark haired and bright-eyed, and Qrow can't find reason to wonder what Clover sees in her.

He retreats to his dorm. He has never liked the military anyways, and that event is no place for him when all he could do is sneer in disdain at all the pamphlets and the flyers and the posters and the flags. He’d only stepped out to see Clover, and Clover is...busy.

It’s been such a long time since Qrow has loved romantically, and perhaps there has never really been a time where he’d stuck around long enough for anything solid to take root in him. There had been a benefit to all his _adventures,_ to all those brief moments of pleasure and intimate touch without the tethering of his heart. It has been a long time, and he almost doesn’t recognize the feeling of petals in his throat before he hacks them up, thick and velvety white and greater in number than these short little months should warrant.

They’re gardenia, he thinks, and there is no mistaking who they’re for. Qrow would really, truly like to pin this on his luck, only he can’t and he knows it and he has been so... _so_ stupid.

He’s made the mistake of wearing his heart on his sleeve, and worse, he’s let it be plucked like a spring flower.

* * *

Qrow needs space.

It feels weird to need space when he’s sober. Qrow will admit he’s not the friendliest drunk, but sobriety has brought on him a strange sort of loneliness that eggs at him whenever his nieces aren’t around, and sometimes even then. Admittedly, working with the Ace Ops has made him miss STRQ, has made him miss his damned sister and Summer’s kind laughter and even Tai Yang, despite the...differences they’ve had over the years, which may or may not have largely been a result of Qrow’s old habits.

So it feels strange to be alone again without warning. Uncomfortable. Antsy. It feels strange to eat a little early so he doesn’t meet Clover for lunch and dinner like he’s been doing over the past few months. It feels strange to duck past the training halls when he sees who occupies them, when previously he would’ve been glad for a sparring partner that didn’t look for a loss in his semblance. 

After three days of avoidance, Clover catches him leaving the mess hall. His eyes brighten, his hopeful smile lights his face as he waves and calls out, and Qrow...well. Qrow immediately drops his gaze and lengthens his strides till he’s free from those eyes, shoulders hunched like he wishes he could hide his face under his wings.

He thinks about alcohol and the idea of it sits sour on the back of his tongue, the memory of a too-familiar taste sullied with the texture of pollen. It feels strange to be alone, and it feels awful to turn away from Clover’s sweet face, and it feels horrible to miss out on his teasing smiles.

Qrow retreats to his room (again) and falls on his bed, debates flying until he glances outside and finds the sky darkened with sheets of rain. This means that, for a time, he’s left alone with his thoughts, and his thoughts drift back to Clover with an annoying kind of frequency and insistence. 

He plays games on his scroll, foot tapping restlessly on the bed until he can’t stand it, then takes Harbinger and heads for the training rooms. And — lucky him — he turns the hall corner and crashes straight into Clover's chest.

“Oh!” Clover exclaims. Qrow tries to backtrack and Clover's hands grasp his arms before he can stumble. “I was —”

“Sorry,” Qrow blurts, cheeks on fire. He wants to shrug the man off and duck away, but the touch has left him frozen. 

“— Looking for you…” Clover finishes with a slump of his shoulders. His eyes flit over Qrow's face and _damned_ if they aren't pretty, sea green and genuine as they are. “Is everything alright?”

“Sure,” Qrow squawks. He's sure the tension in his body is visible. “Why wouldn't it be?”

Clover's brows knit. Somehow, his shoulders — his broad, muscular shoulders — sink even lower. Qrow's struck with the terrible sense that he's kicked a puppy. Clover lets him go and he still feels pinned. “You've been avoiding me,” he says quietly. 

Well _shit,_ now Qrow can't even take off. “I haven't been,” he denies, too quick to sound true. 

“I waved at you earlier,” Clover says. “I thought we'd have lunch. You haven't been around since before the festival.”

“I haven't been feeling well,” Qrow says, which isn't untrue exactly, but Clover's roaming eyes and pinched frown says he doesn't believe him.

“You look better now,” he says, and Qrow thinks, _oh no._ “We could train together, if you're headed there.”

“Uh —” Qrow starts helplessly, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding Clover's gaze. “I just —” 

“Qrow,” Clover interrupts, then exhales, reaches out just a little bit before changing his mind and dropping his hand. “Have I done something?” he asks, and it sounds just pleading enough to make Qrow's chest ache.

Qrow blinks, shame creeping up the back of his neck in shades of pale red. “No.”

“You're not angry with me?”

“No!” Qrow insists. “No, it's just...I just needed to be alone for a while. I didn't mean to make you think that.”

Clover brightens, a hopeful kind of smile on his face. “Good. I thought…nevermind what I thought. But you're…” he pauses, clearing his throat, a faint flush darting across his face. “Do you need to talk about anything?”

He's so goddamn nice. He's so goddamn _cute._ It's not fair of him to do this when Qrow is so desperately wanting, and Qrow knows that's not his fault either, but — 

The petals come up fast. Qrow chokes on them and turns away sharply, coughing into his hand with the hope that he can hide them by crushing them in his fist. 

Except, after a few hard wracks of his chest, a full flower comes out.

“...Oh,” Clover says weakly.

Qrow stares at the flower in horror. How could he be that deep this quickly? A full flowerhead after just a few months, after too-busy schedules where he could only hope they’d cross paths outside of mealtimes or missions? He’s been doing his best not to think on it, but how could he have been so...so _blind_ to this thick, brambled thing growing in his chest?

The flower sits accusingly in his palm, ruined and spit-slick.

“Qrow, I —” Clover starts, then audibly swallows and tries again. “I’m so sorry.”

And that hurts worse than the flowers, _I’m sorry._ Qrow glances up, feeling stared at, and finds Clover looking stiff and pale as a sheet. He quickly crushes the flower in his hand, watches in humiliation as a few loose petals fall to the floor. He can’t manage to make himself stoop to pick them up. “Don’t be,” he rasps. 

“Is...is it bad?” Clover asks, but his voice cracks funny. Between the way his hands tighten at his side and the shallow way his chest rises, between the set of his jaw and the faint press of his lips, he looks like he wants to take off running. Do the flowers disgust him that much? Does Qrow — 

Qrow bites down on his lip, embarrassment burning him under his clothes. “Clover,” he says quietly. 

“Sorry,” Clover says again, quickly, like he’s realized he’s pushed too far. “I shouldn’t have — I’m sorry.” 

“Just…” Qrow says, then closes his eyes for a moment and lets his breath out slowly. “Just drop it,” he murmurs, then slides past him, eyes cast to the floor. 

Clover doesn’t follow after him. Qrow doesn’t really feel like exercising anymore, and would in fact rather go back to his room to lick his wounds, but he still heads to the training room for two hours. 

His luck flares so bad, it cracks the floor.

* * *

Clover’s still in shock long after Qrow disappears down the hall. 

_Flowers._ White petals he doesn’t know the name of, spilled past Qrow’s pretty mouth right in front of his eyes like a hand-delivered letter from the universe: _nice try, lucky charm._

His chest feels tight. He wracks his brain and tries to think of people he’s seen Qrow spend time with since his arrival and all he can really come up with are the kids. Is it a soldier he’d gotten to know on patrols? Clover had paired himself with Qrow so often that it seemed unlikely, but what else, then? Someone he’s missing back home? Someone he has a history with but had never mentioned?

He feels like a fool. Had Qrow just been indulging him the whole time? Had he just been friendly? Clover thinks about Qrow’s quiet smiles and the pink flush of his cheeks whenever Clover tosses a compliment his way, of Qrow’s laughter when Clover jokes with him at mealtimes, the fond way he rolls his eyes at luck puns. Has he misinterpreted every moment they’ve spent together?

He _likes_ Qrow. He likes Qrow a lot, and he’s been thinking that Qrow liked him just as much, but if he’s coughing up flowers, then — 

Clover doesn’t think his luck has ever failed him this badly. 

He swallows, pulls his scroll out of his pocket and picks up a last minute patrol. He hopes that a little bit of action will help him to stop thinking on it, but the patrol is an agonizing kind of slow and leaves him to do little else but twiddle his thumbs while he waits for the possibility of a Grimm attack. 

Maybe he should’ve realized long before now that he didn’t have a chance. Qrow is unlikely to stay in Atlas forever, not when he and his nieces are attached at the hip, not when he has family back in Vale. Maybe Clover’s just destined to lose him in some way or other. 

But he likes Qrow so, _so_ much.

Who could possibly not want someone like Qrow, anyways? He knew Qrow kept to a self-imposed loneliness because of his semblance, but...hell, semblance aside, how could _anyone_ not want him? Qrow is kind-hearted and brave and funny and beautiful and strong and...and anyone who didn’t want him had to be some special brand of idiot. Clover feels a jealous sort of bitterness rising in him at the thought of it, that someone could have what he wants so badly in the palm of their hand and just...not care about it.

The fact that Clover wants Qrow this much after such a short amount of time should speak to how amazing he is. _Qrow_ of all people doesn’t deserve to be suffering through unrequited love.

Clover completes his patrol and retreats to his room for the night. He stands in the shower too long, thinking a thousand miles an hour while hot water pours over his head, a tickle rising in his throat all the while. 

He chokes up petals over the sink, more than he has in a long time, a plum purple so deep that they look black on first glance. Clover stares at them in dismay and searches on his scroll till he finds them: irises, long and furling and reminiscent of feathers.

* * *

Funny how he’d gotten on Qrow’s case for avoiding him, and now here he is, pulling the same stunt. 

In Clover’s defense, he understands now. If Qrow saw him cough up black petals and managed to connect the dots, Clover would never be able to look him in the eye again. And it wouldn’t be fair of him to tell Qrow about it anyways, what with him dealing with his own flowers already. Clover would just have to keep his distance and get over it.

And if he can’t, then...then he has options, if it really gets to the point of being bad for his health.

So he gives Qrow his space, and in turn takes his own; he ducks past Qrow in the mess hall and pretends he doesn’t see the man pause, he skips out on training when Qrow is there, and he doesn’t set up any extra missions to pair them off. 

Work feels a lot more like work when Qrow isn’t there to play cards with him, or toss some of his sharp, dry humor Clover’s way. 

Clover...misses him, and the tightness in his chest gets worse, like roots tangling around his heart. 

He tries to get used to it. Likely, he’ll be living with it for a while still.

Of course, a mission with Qrow is inevitable; there are, on occasion, swarms of Grimm that flood the mines simply because there’s no other people around for them to sniff out, and sometimes those swarms are big enough to warrant the Ace’s and Teams RWBY and JNR. But teams are spread thin, so the available members are sent; Clover, Harriet, Ruby, and of course, Qrow. 

Clover isn’t sure whose luck is at play here, really. 

“Be careful!” Qrow calls sharply after Ruby, who stops mid-torrent of roses to wave at him before she speeds off after Harriet to cut the Grimm off before they can reach the gate. Qrow exhales through parted lips in mild exasperation, and Clover can’t help staring at his mouth for a moment before forcing himself to look away.

“She’ll be fine,” he says, reassuring before pressing two fingers to his earpiece. “This is Alpha. We need two convoys on the east and west border to catch any strays that get past us. Huntresses Harriet and Ruby have already engaged the enemy. Move out.” 

A low cough from Qrow catches his attention; he looks up in time to see Qrow crushing his heel into the snow, likely burying petals there. Something constricts in his chest, and Clover swallows so he won’t cough any up himself. “You alright?” he asks. 

Qrow’s jaw tightens, and he won’t meet Clover’s eyes, but he nods. 

Clover just exhales, drawing Kingfisher from his belt. The plan’s simple; the girls are supposed to kill a few Grimm if they can, but put most of their energy into leading them back towards Qrow and Clover, and from there the four of them can get into a proper formation. For now, it’s a waiting game; Clover reaches into his pocket for his scroll, keeping an eye on Harriet and Ruby’s aura levels just in case.

Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. He can sit here awkwardly with Qrow for a few minutes.

He wants to say something, though. He’s spent a lot of time thinking about this whole...thing in its entirety, and he wishes he didn’t feel as jealous as he does, and he wishes he could’ve been less selfish about it from the start. Maybe he’s still being selfish now; he keeps thinking that seeing Qrow like this makes a sharp swell of mixed emotions rise in him, and that he’s been kept dancing between that jealousy he has no right to and some strange protective impulse. Qrow seems the type to play at being unbothered even while he lingers on things, to pretend that he’s accepted his fate while it eats away at the back of his mind. Would his feelings keep escalating until they boiled over, until he needed a surgery? That idea is even worse, that Clover might see Qrow emotionless and monotone for weeks after the fact, that Qrow might be devoid of laughter and smiles and even those cute, boyish expression of surprise for over a month.

“Qrow,” he says, and still somehow feels caught when Qrow looks at him. “I was thinking…”

He trails off. Qrow blinks, and his cheeks slowly go red, the line of his shoulders going a little rigid. He scowls, looking off towards a rising cloud of powdery snow and swinging Harbinger up to rest on his shoulder. “Is now really the time to be talking about this?”

Clover bites his lip, tucking his scroll away and rubbing the back of his neck. “No,” he admits. “But I think if I wait, either you’ll run off on me again…or I’ll lose my courage.”

Qrow glances at him again, still frowning. Clover wishes he could do something about it; he likes Qrow’s smile, be it shy or flattered or mischievous. He swallows, then goes on, “I was thinking…you should tell them. The person you, uh…whoever your flowers are for. If you haven’t.” 

Qrow’s face goes slack. His mouth hangs open. Clover wonders if he’s imagining the little dusting of pollen on Qrow’s bottom lip. Qrow says, incredulous, “What?” 

“Hear me out,” Clover pleads, and he’s got to say this fast because he can just faintly feel the ground starting to rumble, which means Harriet and Ruby are close and with a stampeding herd of Grimm not far behind. “Look, I just...If you’ve told them already, then I’m sorry, and I’ll shut up about it. But if not, then you’ve still got a chance to be happy with them, right?”

“Clover, what are you —” 

“I think you’re amazing,” Clover blurts, and knowing Qrow loves someone else makes what should’ve been an easy admission burn his cheeks. “And whoever it is would be so lucky to have you. I mean that. I know it’s probably not as simple as I’m thinking, but I remember you saying before that you thought you were better off alone, and that’s not true. You deserve more than that. So if you haven’t...you should give them a chance to say yes.” 

Qrow’s eyes go so wide it’s nearly comical. His jaw works while he searches for something to say and Clover finds it so _charming_. The ground rumbles beneath them and snow kicks up close now, and Ruby comes flying out of the chaos with Harriet at her heels.

“Get ready!” she shouts, twirling her scythe and letting the blade sink into the ground, a shot firing off in an instant, loud and ringing and followed by the thud of a heavy Grimm falling. 

Qrow seems to snap out of his stupor. Harbinger clicks in his hand and unfolds into a scythe and he _moves_ , faster than Clover’s ever seen him. A spray of black dust mingles in the snow as two Grimm drop.

Clover realizes absently, as he flings Kingfisher’s hook out to drag a straying Grimm back into Qrow’s range, that he’s never really had a chance to see the man go all out before. Qrow whirls, light on his feet, slender, agile grace and raw strength in each of his blows, and even while Clover does his damnedest to focus, he can feel the petals coming up slowly. 

Between the four of them, the rest of the Grimm go down easy, and the convoy’s Clover had ordered to spread around the border proves unnecessary. By the end of it, his throat is burning. He can feel Qrow’s eyes on him even as he turns away from Ruby and Harriet’s victory chatter, he can feel the pollen on the back of his tongue, he can feel the choking ache around his ribs — 

“Clover,” Qrow says, grabbing Clover’s arm, and Clover coughs so hard it rattles his shoulders. 

Qrow stops. 

Clover closes his fist around the petals quickly, but it doesn’t stop one of them from fluttering to the ground, stark against the snow in its inky shades. Clover feels his whole body tensing up the longer he stares at it, misery settling deep in his chest before he has to turn and cough again. 

“Clover?” Qrow rasps. 

Clover flinches, fist still tight on the petals before he gives up and drops them. “I didn’t want you to see this,” he murmurs, wiping his mouth. 

“Are they —” Qrow starts, voice a little shaky. His shoes crunch in the snow as he steps closer, and Clover forces himself to meet Qrow’s eyes, brows knitted and his jaw tight.

Except Qrow looks...surprised. Hopeful, maybe.

“Those are for me?” he asks. 

Clover stares at him. Are they for him, of _course_ they are, how could it not be obvious they’re for him? Who else would they be for? “...Are you really asking?” Clover asks, unsure.

“But mine are —” Qrow starts, and Clover abruptly realizes that somewhere there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. He has no idea what could’ve possibly kickstarted the whole thing, but suddenly his throat doesn’t tickle so much anymore, and suddenly his ribs feel light. 

“Are yours —” he starts, suddenly giddy, except then Qrow’s got his fists in Clover’s uniform, and Qrow’s yanking him closer, and Qrow’s kissing him like their lives depend on it, sweet and eager and hard enough to make his lips feel swollen. 

Clover makes a little muffled sound of shock, but he melts into it quick, arms snaking around Qrow’s waist almost on their own.

Distantly, he registers Ruby’s “Oh!” and Harriet’s “ _Okay,_ back to the transport, kid,” but he can’t manage to give a damn about it, given who’s in his arms.

* * *

Clover holds his hand the entire way back to Atlas, and Qrow can’t find it in him to be embarrassed about it, even with Ruby’s teasing. 

“We need to...uh,” Qrow says, pausing to flush and gather himself when Clover turns affectionate eyes on him, “We need to talk about this.”

“Of course,” Clover agrees, but doesn’t seem discouraged. He doesn’t drop Qrow’s hand, either, and Qrow can’t make himself pry his fingers loose.

The transport lands, and nerves flutter in Qrow’s belly suddenly. Clover squeezes his hand as they get off the aircraft, and only pauses to answer a quick “Yes, sir,” into his earpiece before he brings Qrow’s hand up and places a kiss on his knuckles. “I have to report back to the General,” he says, plain reluctance flashing across his face. “Come by my room in an hour? Or I’ll stop by yours. We can talk then.” 

Qrow flushes bright red. He’s never been to Clover’s room, nor Clover to his. His brain takes a steep dive to the gutter. Not that he expects Clover to ask that of him this soon, but the thought is there, and it’s a _nice_ thought, the idea of Clover naked and sweating and breathing out his name like he can’t remember how to say anything else — 

“I’ll come by yours,” Qrow says, dismayed at how it comes out a little bit like a squawk. Clover’s eyes glitter with amusement, one brow going up like he knows exactly where Qrow’s thoughts have gone. He lifts Qrow’s chin in his hand and presses a kiss to his cheek, eyes flitting over Qrow’s form in simmering interest before he turns to head into Atlas Academy. 

Qrow is left standing there, burning in place while a few curious onlookers stare. 

Ruby suddenly swinging from his arm startles him so much, he feels like he ought to look around for scattered feathers. “Uncle Qroooooow,” she teases. 

“Slow your roll,” Qrow says quickly, flustered. “Nothing happened yet —”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a crush?!” Ruby demands, throwing her head back and groaning in exasperation.

“It’s not a _crush,”_ Qrow argues, because he’s a grown man, damn it, and _crush_ makes him sound like some kind of horny, lovesick teenager. Which is only 2/3rds true. 

This, unfortunately, just makes her eyes go even bigger. “Oh,” she says, understanding but surprised. “Worse?” 

Qrow decides he is _not_ going to tell her about the flowers. The fact that she saw Clover’s is enough. 

As if on cue, Ruby says innocently, “So he’s _really_ into you, huh?” 

“Get out of here, pipsqueak,” Qrow says, shaking her loose. Ruby laughs at him and runs off, no doubt to tell Yang all the juiciest details, and anyone else who’ll listen.

Which Qrow wouldn’t be terribly opposed to, if not for the lingering memory of that woman at the festival. 

Not that he's nervous about it, or jealous. Except that he’s both of those things. 

Right. Anyways. Qrow realizes he’s only got an hour to not look like a hot, sweaty mess, so he retreats to his dorm to shower and change into fresh clothes. And he doesn’t want to look too much like he’s trying to impress, so it’s just his white shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and clean pants, and _okay,_ so maybe he spends too much time trying to artfully muss his hair in the mirror. So maybe he spends the leftover minutes pacing and debating how many earrings he wants to be wearing before he sticks two in his ear and calls it quits, before he ends up standing nervously outside Clover’s door hoping this gonna end with him being in a relationship.

He must hesitate too long, because Clover opens the door just as he’s about to knock. Qrow realizes he’s a little overdressed. He also realizes he’s never seen Clover in just jeans and a low hanging t-shirt before. His eyes drift over Clover’s collarbones and the swell of his broad chest, the trim cut of his waist and the curves of his strong arms, before darting back up to his face.

Clover’s biting his lip. Qrow draws in a sharp breath. 

“I worried you wouldn’t come,” Clover admits.

Qrow snorts, partly out of nerves. “Do I seem that flighty?”

“No, I just —” Clover cuts himself off, flushing dark. It is _immensely_ satisfying to see him thrown off for once. “I wasn’t sure I’d be that lucky.”

“You, not lucky,” Qrow muses. 

“I like you, Qrow,” Clover says insistently, as if that explains everything. 

Now it’s Qrow’s turn to flush. Clover’s confidence had always been appealing, but to just say it out loud in the middle of the hall like that, like he hadn’t even considered that he might be embarrassed to admit it —

“Can I come in?” Qrow asks suddenly, feeling seen.

Clover nods and steps aside, motioning him in. It’s a nice room, much nicer than Qrow’s, with a big bed that can definitely fit two and a desk and a small couch, with his own bathroom and even a little fridge. 

“Nice place,” Qrow says, because he doesn’t know what else he might start off with.

Clover scratches the back of his neck. “It’s a little much,” he admits.

Qrow makes a little hum of agreement, then turns and drops himself down on the couch, arm thrown over the back of it. Clover’s eyes drop a little lower as Qrow props his knees apart (success) before he swallows and sits down next to him, leaning a little too close like he wants to be in Qrow’s arms. 

Another nice thought.

“So,” Qrow says. 

“So,” Clover repeats, eyes flitting over Qrow’s face. “You really thought I didn’t like you?”

Any suave confidence Qrow was playing at falls from him instantly. His cheeks burn. “Well,” he says, then clears his throat. “When you say it like that, it sounds dumb.” 

Clover’s mouth ticks up at the edge. “It _was_ kinda dumb.”

That startles a surprised laugh out of Qrow. “Shut up,” he says, shoving at Clover’s shoulder. 

Clover snorts and scoots a little bit closer. Qrow goes quiet, mouth open while his eyes fall to Clover’s lips, then clears his throat and looks away. Clover pauses. 

“At the festival,” Qrow says finally, “I...there was a woman there. With you.” 

Clover blinks. 

“The way you held her made me think you were together,” Qrow finishes. Even now, the idea of it makes something tug in his chest. And — ah, that’s a petal. Qrow leans away and coughs it up, frowning at it. This single little petal, creamy white and almost perfect, is the smallest thing he’s coughed up in days, but it’s still a petal, still a manifestation of how deep his feelings go.

There’s a little wheezing nose by his ear. Qrow turns and finds Clover hiding his face in his hand, shoulders shaking. 

“Are you _laughing?”_ Qrow demands.

The next laugh comes out of Clover in a little burst, loud and unabashed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he manages, eyes twinkling as he meets Qrow’s eyes again. “It’s just...I’m gay, Qrow. That woman was my favorite cousin. I hadn’t seen her in a year, is all.”

Qrow suddenly feels very foolish. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know you were there,” Clover goes on, cheerful now. “And I figured I was being pretty obvious about how I feel about you, so I thought your flowers were for someone else.”

Qrow stares at him for a moment before he laughs too. “Ah, shit.”

“One big misunderstanding after another,” Clover chuckles, then nudges a knuckle against Qrow’s jaw. “So...are we good? We’re doing this?”

Butterflies erupt in Qrow’s belly. “Yeah?” he answers, then, more firmly. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

Clover’s smile turns warm instead of teasing, eyes half-lidded as his gaze falls to Qrow’s mouth again. “Good,” he murmurs. “Good. I liked you the minute I laid eyes on you, you know.”

Qrow huffs. “Didn’t you arrest me the minute you laid eyes on me?”

“Mmhmm. Liked you then, too.”

“Oh, really.”

“I did.” His voice dips lower, fingers moving to take Qrow’s chin. “With you looking the way you do…”

 _“Alright,”_ Qrow says, embarrassed, and reaches up to put his hand over Clover’s mouth to stop him. Clover laughs again and kisses his palm, then tugs his wrist away, gentle. 

“Guess I ended up getting lucky after all,” Clover says softly.

“You’re the worst,” Qrow murmurs, and lets Clover kiss the smile off his face.

**Author's Note:**

> gardenia - secret love, joy, sweet love, good luck  
> iris - faith, hope, wisdom, courage, admiration, good news


End file.
